


The Lady's Not For Yearning

by branwyn



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Douglas is sneaky, Douglas is very interested to hear this, F/M, Genderswap, Martin likes older men, Martin stop dating wankers, girl!Martin, they don't text while on dates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:32:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/branwyn/pseuds/branwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin's got a boyfriend. Douglas takes exception.</p><p>for this prompt on the meme:<br/>http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/3282.html?thread=3417810#cmt3417810</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lady's Not For Yearning

"Well, well," says Douglas swiveling on his stool as Martin emerges from the lift in the lobby. "Don't you look ravishing, Captain."

"Save it, Douglas." Martin pats her hair self-consciously.

"Do I take it you have a date, then?" He pauses. " _Ma'am_?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," says Martin, acknowledging the form of address with an irritated flicker of her heavily made-up eyelids. The eyeliner and shadow have been applied with surprising skill, and he supposes that it suits her, but it makes her look like something she's not--and that something is an elegant, confident, sexually sophisticated woman. 

"First date?" Douglas inquires casually.

"Third, actually."

"Oh my." Dougles wiggles his eyebrows. "Well, I must say you look…up to the occasion."

"What?" Martin pauses in adjusting the ribbon-thin strap of her slinky black dress and blinks at him owlishly. "What occasion? What are you talking about?"

Martin's dauntless naiveté is charming, to a point, but in certain contexts, it can also be alarming. Douglas considers employing various clever euphemisms to get his point across, but in the end decides that the direct method is best. And funniest.

"Sex," he says. "That's what I'm talking about."

Martin gapes at him. "That's--honestly, Douglas, that's absurd, you can't put a timeline on these--what the hell do you mean, I look _up to the occasion?_ " 

Ah. Yes, Douglas can see how his comment might be open to an unfortunate interpretation. "I only meant that you look very…alluring. I didn't mean any offense."

"Oh." Martin flushes radiantly. "Sorry, no, you wouldn't mean that. Um. Thank you. You think he'll like the dress?"

"If he doesn't," says Douglas sincerely, "then he is manifestly unworthy of your time. Who is the lucky chap, out of curiosity?"

Martin pulls the strap of her clutch higher up on her shoulder. "His name's Jack Cavanaugh. He's a captain with Air England."

It's Douglas's turn to gape at Martin. "Jack _Cavanaugh_?" he says. "Oh, Martin. Not you as well."

Martin frowns. "Me as well as what?"

"Every semi-attractive woman between the ages of eighteen and fifty employed by the aviation industries of Europe." Douglas's stomach clenches with unease. "Did you say this was the third date? I must congratulate you, Martin, that has to be a record. Jack Cavanaugh's normal modus operandi is fifteen minutes of chat up followed by ten minutes in the nearest loo. I've never known him to spend more than one evening with the same woman, and I've known him for twenty years."

Martin looks away. "Yes, I'm aware that he has a certain…reputation. But I rather like him. He's very charming, and he listens to me."

"He isn't, perhaps, a bit old for you?" Cavanaugh has a decade on Douglas, and Douglas's fiftieth birthday came and went longer ago than he cares to remember.

Martin's flush brightens. "Yes, well, I, I prefer older men. I always have. Young men are obvious and boring and I prefer to spend time with someone who doesn't send texts when he's on a date."

Douglas doesn't know precisely how to identify the emotion that begins to unfurl in his chest at that. He clamps down on his first instinctive, slightly hurt response, which, _Why am I only just now discovering this?_

"Listen to me, Martin." He pitches his voice low and carefully keeps any hint of mockery out of his tone. He doesn't want Martin to get her back up and ignore what he's about to say just to spite him. "You're not the sort of young woman who goes in for casual dalliances. As a confirmed dallier myself, I'd have noticed by now. And Jack Cavanaugh is not the sort of man who has _relationships_ with women. You must have caught his fancy, not putting out for him immediately, but I promise you, the moment he has his wicked way with you, that will be the last you see of him."

Martin stares at him for a long moment. Much to Douglas's surprise, she doesn't droop or sputter. She draws herself and gives him a tight smile.

"Well, in that case," she says, "I'll just have to keep him waiting, won't I?"

Douglas finds that he has nothing at all to say to that.

 

*

When Martin returns to her hotel room that night, Douglas is still awake. Not that he's waiting up for her, of course he isn't. He just reading a novel. At two o'clock in the morning. She's a grown woman and she can take care of herself. Douglas isn't worried.

And he certainly isn't _jealous._

Nonetheless, when he finally hears the sound of a slightly tipsy person fumbling to slide a keycard through a stubborn lock, he gets out of bed and opens his door. Martin is sighing in exasperation as the green light on the card reader turns red again a split second before she pulls the handle.

"Nice evening, then?" he says casually, and she whirls, startled.

"Good grief, Douglas," she says, narrowing her eyes at him. "What on earth are you doing up at this hour?"

"Just reading a book," he says. "I'm a little surprised to find you in before morning. I hope Captain Cavanaugh didn't turn you out of the room after he'd sampled the delights, that would be terribly unchivalrous of him."

"Douglas." Martin purses her lips. "That was funny the first time you said it, but you're starting to be offensive. We're not characters in a Victorian novel. I am in charge of my own sexuality, and if I choose to sleep with a man, it doesn't mean he's 'had his way with me', or diminished me in any way."

"I didn't say you were _diminished,_ " Douglas says, stung. "I'm just--hell, Martin. The truth is, I happen to think Jack Cavanaugh is a sleazy wanker, and I'm frankly concerned that he'll hurt you."

Well, that was showing his hand a bit, wasn't it? Perhaps he's been a little worried after all.

Martin's expression softens. "That's sweet, Douglas," she says. "But Jack's been perfectly respectful. And for all your carrying on about third dates, he didn't even hint that we should sleep together. He's letting me set the pace, and I like that about him."

Douglas frowns at her. "We are talking about the same Cavanaugh, aren't we?" he says. "Tall chap, neck and arms like a gorilla?"

Martin rolls her eyes. "Good night, Douglas," she says.

"Good night." He watches, as Martin finally manages to get the door open. She disappears into the room, leaving nothing but a trace of her perfume behind. The scent goes straight to the animal portion of Douglas's brain. He thinks of the long, slim lines of her arms and legs in the slinky dress she'd been wearing, and feels himself stir.

Well, _hell_. Jealous too, then. Wasn't that nice and awkward?

Douglas goes back into his room and shuts off the light. It's a long time before he gets to sleep.

*

"Truth or dare," says Douglas, on the flight deck the next morning. 

Martin gives him a wary, sideways glance. "For what stakes?"

"Oh, I don't know, I rather think that a proper game of Truth or Dare is sufficiently high stakes all on its own, don't you?"

"Hmm."

"Besides, it's not as though you have money to wager, and I think we'd better lay off competing for the cheese tray, since I frankly don't fancy the idea of you fainting on me mid-flight and forcing me to rely on Arthur for entertainment."

"Oh, honestly, Douglas, I do eat."

"Your mouth tells one story, your willowy limbs tell another. For heaven's sakes, Martin, you shift furniture for a living. I shouldn't be able to wrap my hand around your bicep."

Martin flushes. "You could not."

"Shall I prove it?"

She jerks a bit. "No. No, just…fine. Truth."

What an _interesting_ reaction. Douglas smiles and leans back in his seat. "Do you date older men exclusively?"

"God, are we back onto this again? If I didn't know any better, I'd start to wonder--"

Douglas arches an eyebrow. "Wonder what?"

"--never mind. All right, yes, I suppose I do. But since I've really only dated four people I'm not sure there's enough data to extrapolate any meaningful statistics about my inclinations."

He forgets, from time to time, that despite not having been to university, or even a proper aviation school, Martin is extremely clever, in a bookish way that does nothing at all to help her in practical situations or dealings with other human beings. Four people, really? At the age of 33? "Why only four people?"

"It's my turn," she says smugly. "Truth or dare?"

He's not about to interrupt the conversational flow this early in the game. "Truth."

"When I saw you last night, after my date, what would you have done if I'd said that you were right all along and Jack was a scoundrel who'd attempted to ravish my honor?"

Douglas's head pivots. " _Did_ he?"

"I believe I'm the one asking the questions this round."

She looks entirely too pleased about this. Douglas scowls. What _would_ he have done? Scooped her up, carried her into his room and pressed kisses to her sweet hair while she cried in his arms?

"I suppose I would have valiantly resisted the temptation to say, 'I told you so,' and arranged for the matter to be dealt with via a few discreet phone calls."

Now it's Martin's turn to frown. "Dealt with? How?"

Technically, this is an additional question, but Douglas doesn't mind answering. "I _know_ people," he says, in his blandest, most insinuating tones. "Truth or dare?"

"Oh, um. Truth, I suppose." 

"Why are you blushing?"

"What? I am not--" Martin lifts a hand to her pink face, then sighs. "Oh, bugger. I just happen to think that's--rather sweet of you, that's all. A bit frightening, mind, but…sweet."

"Not what you were expecting?"

"Not quite, no. Truth or dare?"

"Oh, truth again, I think."

"If I weren't dating Jack, would you want to go out with me?"

Well, he rather walked into that one, didn't he? On the other hand, he hasn't exactly been playing it close to the chest over the last couple of days, and Martin is hardly an idiot. 

"Are you going to make me pay for it if I answer that honestly?" he says, unable to conceal the wariness in his tone.

Martin lifts an eyebrow, looking uncharacteristically self-assured. "Only one way to find out."

"No."

"Oh." Is it just him or does Martin look rather taken aback?

"Don't be offended," he says. "It's just that I only go out with women who are on the rebound if I'm sure they're not looking for more than a night of fun. Things tend to get messy, otherwise."

"Oh," Martin says again. She does look a bit more relaxed at that. "Found that out the hard way, did you?"

"Via the second Mrs Richardson, yes."

"Eurgh." Martin grimaces sympathetically. 

"Truth or dare?"

Martin sighs. "Truth."

" _Are_ you looking for a night of fun?"

"What? No!" 

"Thought not." 

"And if I were, I'd be having it with Jack. Who is my boyfriend, if you recall."

Douglas rolls his eyes. "As if I could forget."

*

Two days later, Douglas spots Jack Cavanaugh in a sushi restaurant in an airport in Sydney. On his life, Douglas can't understand what Martin sees in him. True, a pilot's uniform still has a greater sway over her imagination than is entirely decent, considering she's got one of her own, but Cavanaugh is paunchy round the middle, and he has an obvious bald spot at the back of his head. Douglas is rather vain about his own hair, and this makes him feel pleasantly superior. 

On the other hand, Martin's never put on a slinky dress for him. And if she ever _had_ , Douglas thinks, with a sudden spike of delirious anger, he wouldn't be caught dead in a cheap restaurant hand-feeding pieces of eel nigiri to a long-legged buxom brunette at least ten years younger than Martin, which must make her young enough to be Cavanaugh's granddaughter.

He's got half a mind to corner Cavanaugh on his way out of the restaurant for a quick chat, of the sort in which words are not likely to play an important role. But airport security is a different thing now than it had been in his youth, and he's a bit old to get into a brawl over a woman, anyway.

"And how goes the grand romance, Captain?" says Douglas casually, when they're back on Gerti. "Still taming Casanova's wild heart?"

"Stuff it, Douglas," says Martin, with a weary sigh. "What's the matter with you, anyway? Can't you be happy for me? Or is it so hard to believe that I've found someone who likes me and wants to be with me?"

"That would not surprise me in the least," he says coolly. It's not entirely a lie. Of course people would want Martin. It's only her _finding_ them, instead of throwing herself away on tossers who haven't the sense to appreciate her, that she doesn't seem to be managing. 

*

Douglas finds himself reconsidering his stance on violence and age-appropriate activities the next time he runs into Jack Cavanaugh, about a week later.

They're on a layover in Marseilles, and Douglas is drowning his sorrows, such as they are, in a soda with lime, when Cavanaugh enters the hotel lobby and makes his way to the bar. He sits down beside Douglas, only to do a double take.

"Well, Douglas Richardson," he says. "Long time no see. How's life in the exciting world of charter flight?"

Douglas leans back on an elbow and surveys Cavanaugh from beneath an arched eyebrow. "What, don't you know?" he drawls. "You have an inside source on MJN's affairs these days. Or so I hear."

"Ah, yes, the charming Captain Crieff." Cavanaugh pronounces Martin's title as though he finds it rather funny. "Things have moved on from our day, haven't they?"

"In what way?"

"Well, I mean, a girl like that, with four stripes on her arm? Bit of a bloody waste, if you ask me. You should tell Carolyn to get her a proper uniform. Shame to hide those legs in trousers." Cavanaugh chuckles and knocks back his whiskey. "They don't make those kinds of mistakes with stewardesses's uniforms, thank heavens."

Douglas tries, and for possibly the first time in his life, fails to think of a witty retort. "Being captain," he says heavily, "is everything to Martin." Honestly, how could anyone talk to her for five minutes, let alone date her for a month, and not know that?

"Yes, she's rather keen, isn't she? But then I gather she hasn't got much else going for her, poor girl. Still, that will change soon enough."

Unease prickles at the back of Douglas's neck. "What do you mean?"

"Well, if you must know, I've been thinking it's high time I settled down. Have a family. Martin will enjoy a bit of looking after, I think, and of course she's young, and…fertile." Cavanaugh shapes the world with relish. "A few kiddies to brighten up my declining years seems like just the thing. Can't be on the prowl forever, you know. Isn't seemly, at my time of life."

"Jack Cavanaugh, resigning the playing field? Will wonders never cease." Douglas reaches for his glass, to cover the sudden panic blooming in his gut. Martin couldn't possibly be daft enough to want to marry the old codger, could she? To…leave her dingy student flat and have enough money to eat on a regular basis and raise two children in a house with a garden? _I have a house with a garden,_ Douglas thinks petulantly.

"And once you find yourself translated into untold bliss," says Douglas, "will you still be seeing sushi-fancying brunettes on the side? Because I think Martin would have something to say about that."

Cavanaugh looks startled, then laughs. "Well, married doesn't mean dead, dear fellow."

"No." Douglas takes money from his wallet and places it on the table. "More's the pity."

*

As far as plots go, arranging for Martin to come across Jack Cavanaugh as he's stumbling out of the loo with a hostess from Air France isn't one of the subtler or cleverer plots of Douglas's career. It is highly effective, though. He only wishes he could have achieved the same effect without Martin's face turning that alarming shade of white.

"Martin." She's walking down the hotel corridor to her room at a fast clip, and if Douglas's legs weren't approximately twice as long as hers he'd never manage to catch her up and get between her and the door in time. "Martin, stop, please."

"Go away." Martin's face is streaked with tears. "You've had your fun, go humiliate someone else for a change."

" _Martin_." Douglas's hands come to settle on her shoulders. "You've got the wrong end of this."

"Why couldn't you just leave us alone?" Martin pushes him away, and Douglas steps back reluctantly. "You don't even _want_ me, why couldn't you just let me try for a little happiness with someone else?"

If she'd slapped him, Douglas wouldn't have been at all shocked. But her words strike harder than any blow, and he reels.

"Where on earth," he breathes, "do you get the idea that I don't want you?"

It isn't what he'd meant to say at all. He hadn't exposed Cavanaugh's infidelity because of his own pathetic tendresse for Martin (though he can't deny it had added a little zeal to his endeavors.) If he ever catches, say, Hercules Shipwright sneaking around behind Carolyn's back, he'd show the blighter up in no time flat, simply because he finds that sort of thing unspeakably distasteful, after his last marriage. But Martin is blinking at him with huge eyes, and he decides further protests regarding him impartiality are rather beside the point.

"Martin," he says. "Cavanaugh is a fool. I simply couldn't bear the thought of him taking you in, when he's so manifestly undeserving of you. I'm sorry that it hurt you. That's the last thing I wanted."

Martin bows her head and sniffs, and Douglas aches with the need to hold her. But when he takes a hesitant step forward, Martin turns away.

"I'll just--" She opens the door of her room, and slips inside. "I'll see you in the morning, Douglas."

The door shuts in Douglas's face, and he stands there for a long time, hoping it will open again.

*

Their flight back to Fitton the next morning is awkward, to say the least. Martin manages to converse normally with Arthur, for the given valuation of normal that applies to conversations with their steward, but she doesn't say a word to Douglas above the necessary for operation of the plane. She gives him the landing, however, which is uncharacteristic enough to worry him. In Douglas's experience, Martin doesn't voluntarily surrender landings unless she's either suffering a crisis of confidence, or feeling unwell. She's looking pale and pinched, puffy around the eyes, as though she hasn't slept, and considering the events of the previous night, he suspects both conditions might be applicable.

He determines to have the matter out with her once they've landed, but no sooner have they touched down and completed their post-landing check off than Martin bolts. Douglas is left with the unpleasant choice of either completing the flight logs himself, or leaving them glaringly unfinished, a state of affairs that Carolyn will demand an explanation for. In the end he elects to complete them somewhat hastily, and as the night is still young afterwards, he girds his loins and drives to Martin's flat. It's a weakness of his character that he can't bear to leave things unfinished. He's come to discover over the years that time does not, in fact, mend all. Unassisted, time tends to let things languish in an inertial state, and in this particular instance, inertia isn't good enough for Douglas.

When he arrives at the student house where Martin lives, no one answers his repeated knocks. But the door is unlocked, so Douglas lets himself in. Honestly, these young people. The downstairs is vacant, but he hears giggling as he climbs the stairs. Male voices, in the plural. At first he thinks it's just Martin's housemates carrying on in their own rooms, but when he passes the landing that leads to the first floor rooms, he finds it deserted as well. The giggling is coming from the top floor, where Martin lives in her little attic.

Douglas's steps slow on the staircase. He looks up through the shadows and finds two young men in their early twenties, kneeling in front of Martin's door, shoving each other for turns peering in through the keyhole.

"Oi, my turn," one of them whispers, somewhat drunkenly. "I can't see anything. Blimey, do you think she's naked?"

 _Right_ , thinks Douglas. He creeps silently up the last few steps, then seizes the two young men by their collars and _yanks_.

"I'm counting to three," he booms, and the students yelp, toppling backwards. "And then you two louts had better have cleared off before I give you the thrashing of a lifetime. One. Two--"

"Shit!" They begin to scramble to their feet, but before they've had the chance, Martin's door bursts open. She's wearing track bottoms, and a white vest that clings to her modest curves. Her eyes are wide as she takes Douglas's presence in, but then her gaze lights on the younger men, and her face turns scarlet. She gapes at them a moment, then glances down at her clothing, and crosses her arms over her chest.

"Three," Douglas thunders. The students look from Martin, to him, then at each other, and bolt down the stairs. Douglas follows them a couple of paces, and peers down the staircase after them. When he turns to look down at Martin again she's staring down at the floor, and the bright reflection of tears in her eyes nearly sends Douglas after them to deliver the promised thrashing.

Instead, he takes a cautious step toward Martin. "Are you all right?" he says. He would dearly like to lay a protective hand on her shoulder, but he's not certain what right, if any, he has to presume to such familiarity, after the events of the last twenty-four hours.

"'M fine," she mutters. "It's--no harm done, I suppose."

"I wouldn't say that," says Douglas, incredulously. "They've no right to make you uncomfortable in your own home. You'd be in your rights to call the landlord, or the police."

Martin shrugs uncomfortably. "No point making a fuss," she says. Then she blinks, and looks up at him. "What are you doing here?"

"I--" Douglas shifts his weight from foot to foot. "I was hoping we could talk about last night."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"There is," he insists. "You're unhappy. You didn't look well, earlier. And I know it's--at least partly my fault. I'd appreciate it if you'd give me the opportunity of explaining myself."

Martin looks at him, seeming confused. She looks up and down the short expanse of corridor, then shrugs. "I suppose," she says. "Um--come in. You'll have to excuse the state of my room. I wasn't really expecting visitors."

"That's fine," says Douglas, following her inside. "It's--"

The words die in his throat as he looks around.

He knew Martin was poor. But never having been properly poor himself, he'd had some sort of romantic notion of what poverty looked like. Something having to do with bare, yet tasteful garrets, excellent views, all the privations of a starvation lifestyle made up for in some artistic way by the higher integrity of pursuing a calling.

And maybe that's what it looks like, through Martin's eyes. But to Douglas's thoroughly middle class sensibilities, Martin's little attic is nothing less than a dive. A scrupulously clean and orderly dive. but a dive nonetheless. There's a mattress on the floor, a metal folding chair in the corner, and small wardrobe with bowed sides. No decorations on the walls. A large steamer trunk sits under the lone window, doing the office of a table and a kitchen cabinet. Douglas feels oddly humbled at the sight of it all. From time to time, he'd been inclined to think of Martin as a bit whiny, but he'd had no idea the degree to which she has taken the privations of her life into stride. He can't even imagine how he would hold up under similar conditions.

"Have a seat," says Martin, indicating the chair. "I'll…put some tea on."

Douglas lowers himself into the squeaky mental chair gingerly, half afraid that it isn't up to his weight. It groans beneath him, but it doesn't collapse. Martin fills the kettle from a jug of water and switches it on, setting two mugs out, and Douglas watches her in the dim light. She looks tense, but not quite so bitterly unhappy as he'd been afraid. He decides to risk a little honesty.

"I overstepped," he tells her, grateful he doesn't need to meet her eyes. "I'm sorry for that. I…can't find it in myself to be sorry that you saw Cavanaugh for what he was, but I should have simply told you, instead of indulging my love of theatrics."

"Why did you do it like that?" Martin asks in a tight voice. The kettle switches itself off, and she pours the water into the mugs. "Because honestly, Douglas, it was very difficult to think you had any motive apart from embarrassing me publicly."

"That really was the farthest thing from my mind," Douglas insists, shifting uncomfortably. "Cavanaugh is very good at talking his way out of a tight spot. I suppose I was afraid that he'd manage to worm his way back into your good graces. If you had the evidence before your eyes, you wouldn't have to take my word for it."

Martin turns slowly and looks down at him. There's a serious, slightly confused look on her face.

"What on earth makes you think that your word wouldn't be good enough for me?" she says.

Douglas opens his mouth to reply. But his mouth, once open, simply stays that way.

Martin studies him for a long moment. Then she walks toward him across the dingy room and stops, hands on her narrow hips. She looks oddly intimidating from this angle--no less tiny and breakable than usual, but self-assured in a way he's rarely seen her.

"I was never going to marry him, you know," she says.

Something tight and knotted in Douglas's stomach seems to unclench suddenly. "Weren't you?" he says.

"I was never that serious about him," she says. "I don't think he was very serious about me either. I think I was just…the right age. And convenient."

A muscle jumps in Douglas's jaw, but he bites his tongue.

"I just…he treated me well." Martin sighs. "To my face, at least. He treated me like…like I was worth impressing." Her face turns scarlet, but her gaze is steady. "I'm not used to that. I should have broken up with him weeks ago, but. Well. I enjoyed that part of it."

"You deserve it," says Douglas, surprised by the gruff sincerity with which the words escape him. "You deserve to be treated that way by someone who is genuinely devoted and wants you for something more than a brood mare."

Martin lifts her head and smiles slightly. "I do," she says. "I forget that, sometimes, but…you don't. And, well. I like that. I--I like you. I always have."

Douglas's heart is beating very fast, suddenly. As an experiment, he extends a hand. To his delight, Martin takes it. He stands up, and she cranes her head back to look up at him. Douglas feels a flutter of uncharacteristic nervousness. 

"I understand that you may have had your fill of smooth-talking old sky gods for the moment," he says. "But…just for the record. I myself might also be looking for more than just a night of fun."

Martin's lips quirk. "Such as…lots of nights of fun?"

"Why, now that you mention it." Douglas is fairly certain that Martin can see right through the leer he adopts. 

"Hmm." Martin rises up on her tiptoes. "I should probably warn you, though. I didn't actually like Jack that much. And I still told the hosties on his last flight that he has genital warts and can only get it up if you sing 'I'm A Little Teapot' and do all the moves while undressing."

Douglas chokes back a laugh. "And what would you have done if you had liked him, I wonder?"

Martin smiles. "If you ever cheat on me, you'll find out."


End file.
